


not a crusader

by youcouldmakealife



Series: but always in tandem [7]
Category: Original Work
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-21
Updated: 2016-06-21
Packaged: 2018-07-16 10:59:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7265356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youcouldmakealife/pseuds/youcouldmakealife
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You’re kind of fixated, huh?” Robbie asks.</p>
<p>“What?” Benson says.</p>
<p>“Like, I get it, you think he’s pretty,” Robbie says. “Thanks for letting me know?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	not a crusader

Robbie probably should have expected trouble the moment he heard Kurmazov say “I don’t want any bullshit, Benson,” in warm ups. Except like: he kind of thought that’d be it. Kurmazov was Benson’s former captain, Kurmazov’s one scary motherfucker, there would be no bullshit from Benson, obviously.

There is _so much_ bullshit from Benson.

It takes like zero point two seconds to figure out Benson’s got some hate on for Chaps. Robbie’s played with guys he didn’t like before — hi, Georgie! — been happy as hell to see them on the other side of the ice with one particularly douchebag former Capital, but this is a whole other level of shit. 

“I don’t think he likes you,” Robbie says when Chaps returns to the bench grimacing from an uncalled slash to his hands. Shit keeps up, Robbie won’t be able to count on his fingers how many missed calls Benson has. He’s judging the refs pretty hard right now.

“He doesn’t,” David says. “He’s never liked me.”

“Benson’s a little prick,” Kurmazov says. “He always has been.”

Those are some harsh fucking words from Kurmazov, who generally has the whole silently judgmental thing going on. Robbie suspects Benson might be a little prick. 

Doesn’t take long to confirm that.

Robbie doesn’t know if Benson’s been told to hound Chaps all game or he’s decided to do it himself, but he’s betting on the latter, because after a one two punch of Capitals goals in the second and a shiny 1.00 save record on their end, it’s pretty fucking obvious that it’s not a good tactic, but he’s still leaning on that shit.

The second goal’s Kurmazov from Chapman, and the Islanders crowd unites in an extended boo when David’s name is announced. Chaps is sitting beside Robbie on the bench, and Robbie can see his face drop a little. Can’t imagine how it feels, playing for a city for years, them hating you like that. 

“That’s a beautiful fucking sound,” Benson says, skating past the Capitals bench, and Robbie is so over this guy.

“So’s the goal horn,” Robbie says. “And only one of them means shit, move along minus two.”

The ref punctuates that by shooing Benson back to his bench, apparently finally able to notice he exists and is also a shithead, and David’s smiling now, small, head ducked like he’s trying to hide it, but Robbie sees that shit.

“Yeah, I’m proud of that one,” Robbie says, then tries to help that smile along. “Robbie Lombardi, word master.”

“You’re a dork,” Chaps says, because he chirps like a ten year old, but he’s smiling for real now, and that’s the kind of shit Robbie likes to see.

They go up another goal in the third, lose the shutout, but they’re up two with ten minutes to go and a powerplay in their pocket, so nobody’s too worried, especially against the shit Isles PK. Robbie had never really done powerplay minutes, too defensively minded: got all his workouts on the penalty kill, and is shot block extraordinaire, thanks for asking. He’s been doing powerplay drills in practice since Georgie and his one-timer got here, though, and he’s not really surprised to get tapped to be the ballast to what’s become a scary offensive power play.

Georgie scores, just to punctuate that point, and before Robbie can do the shuffle step that means he’s part of the celebration but not like…face planted in Georgie’s throat part of the celebration, Benson’s blocking him off. Must have lost the Chapman trail.

“Same size, wrong dude,” Robbie says. “Nice try.”

“You better watch out for him,” Benson says, and Robbie’s eyes flick over to Georgie before he can help himself. He knows they played on the national team together at least a couple times, and if there’s some well-intentioned warning, well, it’s a little too fucking late for that. “Chapman’s gagging for dick.”

Well, there goes that theory. Also the well-intentioned part.

Common wisdom, the kind Robbie is generally pretty good at following, says this is the moment to skate away with an eye roll, let the dude stew in the fact his chirp didn’t land. But honestly it’s been like watching someone hanging himself in slow motion all game, the way he’s made David his target at the expense of everything else, and Robbie kind of wants to watch him hang himself just a little more. He times it right, a ref will notice Benson jawing at him right when shit gets unsportsmanlike.

Besides, Robbie was over homophobic shit like…always…but he hasn’t been meek and mild hearing it for at least the last five years. Like, fuck, they have their fucking president and first…dude of really fucking good hockey players who happen to openly suck cock, gay marriage is legal like…everywhere there’s an NHL team, you’d think guys would have gotten bored of this shit by now.

“Uh huh,” Robbie says, noncommittal.

Doesn’t look like Benson needs any goading to continue, rolls forward like it’s some shit he’s needed to get off his chest. “Pretty boy thinks he’s God’s gift to hockey, but he’d probably get on his knees for the first guy who offered.”

“You’re kind of fixated, huh?” Robbie asks.

“What?” Benson says.

“Like, I get it, you think he’s pretty,” Robbie says. “Thanks for letting me know?”

“Fuck you,” Benson spits. “That’s fucking sick.”

Because for sure noticing a dude is hot is way sicker than whatever the fuck Benson has going on. Robbie would feel sorry for the guy if he had a single fuck to give to homophobic shitstains. Which he doesn’t, by the way. Zero fucks from Robbie Lombardi.

“This some kind of jealousy thing?” Robbie asks. “Watch out, ‘cause he’s mine?”

Robbie can tell Benson’s about to drop the gloves a second before he does. He’s never fought before, but apparently every iota in him was ready for it, considering he’s got his gloves shucked fists up before he can blink. Which kind of sucks in hindsight, considering they give him an extra two despite the fact Benson like…okay maybe he didn’t throw the first punch, but he was prepared to.

The guy sitting beside him in the box hands him a towel.

“Bleeding, huh?” Robbie asks. He doesn’t say anything, and Robbie wonders if they’re like the guards in England or something, banned from saying anything ever. Robbie doesn’t think he’s ever actually exchanged words with any of them, at least at NHL level. Generally isn’t in the mood to, when he’s in the box, but maybe it’s a thing. “Where am I bleeding?”

“Your nose,” the guy says, which kills that theory. 

“Okay,” Robbie says, putting the towel to his nose. It stings, and he pulls it back to find it bright red. His nose has started to throb, that low bass note like a hungover morning, which means in five minutes his life is going to royally fucking suck, because off goes the adrenaline and in comes the pain.

Benson looks irritatingly unscathed in the other box, but he also looks like he’s fuming, which is only going to hurt him and the Isles, so he can fume all he fucking wants. You look at it like that, Robbie won the fight. Psychological warfare and shit.

Fuck Robbie’s face hurts.

The Caps kill the penalty Robbie landed them with, no worse for wear, and it’s still 4-1 when Robbie gets released from the box, time really not in the Islanders favor, so he feels okay about the fight, minus the whole…pain shit.

“How’d I do?” Robbie says, flopping down onto the bench. The dull throb is starting to overtake everything, and Robbie is ready for his deserved chirping, because he just got his ass kicked. 

“You did really well,” Chapman lies graciously.

Georgie snorts, but he doesn’t say anything, which is good, because Robbie’s not really in the mood for round two: this guy’s twice the size!, and he might just throw a punch Georgie’s way with how he’s feeling right now. Like, Georgie deserves it all the fucking time, but Robbie’s all hopped up on having punched a dude, so. Maybe this was a sign. Maybe he was meant to punch dudes. He doesn’t seem to be very good at it, though.

“Told you if anyone went after you I had your back,” Robbie says. It’s kind of debatable whether he actually had it, there, because he doesn’t think he was much of a deterrent, he put them on the penalty kill, and any team would rather lose a forward for five minutes than a top-four defenseman, so he fucked the Caps in the bargain, but like. He had his back. 

“Did he—” David says, then looks visibly uncomfortable, like he might have had some idea of the shit Benson was spouting. Which, if so, fuck that guy, considering they were on the same team. Robbie’s…not really liking the squeamish shit from Chapman, but he definitely shouldn’t be getting homophobic shit just because he’s…well. He’s pretty. It’s undeniable. That was basically the only word out of Benson’s mouth that wasn’t bullshit.

“You didn’t have to do that,” David says, still sounding uncomfortable, and yep, Robbie heard the usual bullshit for sure.

“Enh, he was getting on my nerves,” Robbie says, because it’s not like that’s a lie, and tips his head back when Bruce hovers over him, gloves on and cotton in his hands. “Had to get into my first fight eventually, I think Quincy was taking fucking bets.”

“Thanks, Robbie,” David says.

“Hey, any time, right?” Robbie says. “Except not any time soon, my nose hurts like a fucking bitch right now.”

“Lom _bardi_ ,” Bruce says.

“Sorry,” Robbie says, because yeah, he should probably focus on stemming the bleeding if he wants to get his ass back on the ice. 

Out of his peripheral he notices David taking his glove off, then clenching his fist beside him, and he can’t suppress a grin. “They’re non-optional for being a bro, right?” David asks.

“Damn straight, Chaps,” Robbie says, knocking his fist against David’s, even though it kind of stings, wow, fist fights suck, and Bruce breathes out an annoyed breath and then shoves cotton up Robbie’s nose without warning, which is…unpleasant.

“The fuck,” Robbie complains.

“If you’d listened you’d have known it was coming,” Bruce says, while Robbie cups his hands protectively over his poor, abused nose.

*

Georgie’s not a fighter, but he’s not _not_ a fighter, if you know what Robbie means. Like, first off, you’re not seeing all that many fights in general, since no one’s particularly interested in getting suspended, especially if that has an effect on them actually hitting professional. Georgie doesn’t have to worry about making the NHL, obviously, but he’s out for a game, he fucks the whole team over, and Robbie extra, and it’s not like he doesn’t know that.

But Georgie’s a big dude, and he’s not afraid to get involved in the little scrums that happen, tends to come in right when Robbie’s face to…neck…with someone Georgie’s size, actually. Georgie Dineen: his hero. Please note the sarcasm. Robbie told him to knock it off, but Georgie said it was the principle of things, a kind of ‘pick on someone your own size’, and Robbie guesses he can let it slide, as long as Georgie doesn’t get into a fight and get his ass suspended.

Of course Georgie gets his dumb ass into a fight the game following that conversation. Of fucking course he does. Cherry on top of that shit sundae is the fact that their next game is against Boston College, and they’re not going to have Georgie for it.

Robbie’s pretty fucking pissed at him. 

They won the game, but Robbie’s not in the mood to go out after, really, and Georgie doesn’t seem to be either, follows him back all hangdog look. Robbie didn’t recall inviting him into his room, but there he is on Robbie’s bed, all big and broad and…fist-fighty, which doesn’t work with the full shields, man, you’re fucking your hands up or you’re spending half your time removing your damn helmet, but it was kind of hot. Like, on top of regular Georgie hot.

Robbie’s still pissed at him.

“If you’re looking for props, you’re not getting it from me,” Robbie says. “Go out and find some chick that thinks you’re a fucking warrior for throwing a punch.”

“He was saying homophobic shit,” Georgie says.

“So?” Robbie says. 

Georgie gives him a look.

“Yes, I, noted homosexual,” Robbie starts, and pauses for Georgie’s snort, “understand that homophobic shit is fucking douchebag behavior, but dude, I needed you beside me on Saturday.”

“You need me all the time,” Georgie says.

“I need you every game,” Robbie allows. “But _BC_ , Georgie.”

“I know,” Georgie says. “I’m sorry.”

“You couldn’t have waited and punched an Eagle, at least?” Robbie asks.

“Sorry, man, that’s your job, I guess,” Georgie says.

“I’m a lover, not a fighter,” Robbie says. 

Georgie laughs. “Okay, hothead hate ball.”

“I preferred little ball of hate,” Robbie says. “For the record.”

“Noted,” Georgie says.

“Okay, I’m a hater,” Robbie says. “Still not a fighter.”

“It was some really vile shit,” Georgie says quietly.

“Thank you for being an friend to the gays, yadda, yadda,” Robbie says. “I’m still really pissed at you.”

“Robbie,” Georgie says. “Listen.”

“Like, we lose to BC, what are we, Georgie? What will you have done to us, you thoughtless monster?” Robbie says, then, “What?”

“Nothing,” Georgie says. “Never mind.”

“Okay,” Robbie says. “You want some help with those hands?”

Georgie looks down at them like he’s seeing them for the first time, still red, starting to bruise. “Nothing I can do about them, I think,” he says. “I mean, they’re not cut or anything, so.”

“Guess not,” Robbie says. “I’m going to go scrounge up some ice anyway.”

“You don’t need to do that,” Georgie says.

“Consider it the partner package,” Robbie says. “Wait here, idiot.”

“Bossy,” Georgie says, but when Robbie returns with a cup full of ice and a shitton of napkins, Georgie’s waiting for him.

“I am a genius,” Robbie says, transferring the ice to Ziploc bags his mother thought he’d need for…whatever reason, but thanks mamma, you were right!

“They’ll leak,” Georgie says. 

“Hey, gratitude here,” Robbie says, wrapping his impromptu ice packs in napkins before pressing them against Georgie’s hands. Georgie hisses, either at the cold or the contact, Robbie doesn’t know. He makes sure they’re evenly distributed, then realizes that he’s basically holding Georgie’s hands, fingers tucked around the outside of his palms, holding the ice on, and pulls his hands back, fast.

“Just keep your hands still and they’ll stay, I guess,” Robbie says. 

“Robbie,” Georgie says. 

“I’ve got studying to do,” Robbie says. “So. Amuse yourself or fuck off.”

“How am I supposed to do that?” Georgie complains, which, okay, ice packs, fair. Robbie cues Batman Begins up for him on his laptop, sticks some earbuds in, and gets pretty damn far before his back starts complaining from the shit chair. Robbie’s thoughtful ice gifts are in his trash can, which: rude, except they’re water gifts now and also…yeah they’re leaking all over the place, thanks know-it-all.

“Budge, shitstain,” Robbie says.

“Feeling the love,” Georgie says, sounding kind of sleepy, but he budges over enough to make enough room that Robbie’s only half hanging over the bed when he gets on the bed beside him, which is…honestly something he shouldn’t be doing, he is a master of torturing himself, apparently.

Georgie’s passed out by the time the credits roll, and only groans when Robbie takes the laptop away and starts poking him. 

“Back to your room,” Robbie says.

“Too far,” Georgie complains.

“Like, a few fucking floors,” Robbie says. “Get out of my bed, dude.”

“No,” Georgie says, rolling onto his side so he takes up less room, then throwing an arm over Robbie and apparently falling back asleep in point one seconds. Fucker. 

Robbie stares at his ceiling and questions every single thing in his life that led up to this stupid fucking self-torture session, then gets out from under Georgie’s arm and goes to hit the lights before he crawls into the too cramped, too warm bed, shutting his eyes tight while Georgie breathes soft and even beside him.


End file.
